


A Tale of Two Tropes

by Amelia_Clark



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Grandmothers, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Rimming, Sharing a Bed, the midwest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-23 03:54:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17072984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelia_Clark/pseuds/Amelia_Clark
Summary: “Am I going to regret this?” Cas asked from the passenger seat.They’d just pulled up outside Dean’s grandmother’s house, a tidy Craftsman bungalow painted a cheerful yellow. It didn’t look threatening; there was a porch swing with crocheted cushions and a cement statue of a goose on the porch. The goose was wearing a rain slicker and hat the same color as the house.In this fic: fake dating, bed-sharing, the doting grandmother Dean Winchester never had, a cement goose with a wardrobe, a contemptuous cat, and a lot of sexual tension that's unresolved until it isn't.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pitytheviolins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pitytheviolins/gifts).



> This was supposed to be a PWP, just a quick thing before tackling another longer project; I'd never written an "only one bed" fic and thought it'd be fun. And since [pitytheviolins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pitytheviolins)'s birthday was last month, and they're the best, I asked them to add whatever they wanted to the prompt. They went for fake dating, obviously, because that is the Best Trope. Add those mega-tropes to my sometimes-unrequited love for the Midwest, and my missing my late grandmothers a lot around Christmas, and this fic was born. IN AN UNPRECEDENTED TURN OF EVENTS, IT IS COMPLETE. I'll post a chapter daily.

“Am I going to regret this?” Cas asked from the passenger seat.

They’d just pulled up outside Dean’s grandmother’s house, a tidy Craftsman bungalow painted a cheerful yellow. It didn’t look threatening; there was a porch swing with crocheted cushions and a cement statue of a goose on the porch. The goose was wearing a rain slicker and hat the same color as the house.

But Dean knew that it wasn’t the architecture that was worrying Cas. The guy didn’t get family, is the thing—he just had his alcoholic dad and an asshole uncle or two, none of whom he spoke to unless forced. And okay, Dean’s dad was a drunk, too, but he still had Mom, and his little brother Sammy, and his dad’s old man, Henry, out in Phoenix, and Grandma Campbell down here in Derby. Which doesn’t even touch all the people he calls family who aren’t blood related, like Ellen and Bobby and Jo. For Dean, family means everything. For Cas, it means jack shit.

Probably, Dean thought, he should’ve counted Cas in the same category as Bobby; they’ve been thick as thieves for seven years, ever since they met working at the Gas & Sip after Dean dropped out of college. He never expected to have a best friend in his thirties, that always seemed like kid stuff, but he couldn’t deny that his bond with Cas was deeper than what he’d got with Benny or Garth. Really, then, he should’ve thought of Cas as adopted family—it shouldn’t even matter that he had sex dreams (and daydreams, okay) about the dude on a regular basis, he’d actually made out with Jo a couple of times and she still felt like kin—but he couldn’t. So he just let Cas be his own category, and he tried not to think about fucking him while Cas was in the room. Or the car.

“It’s gonna be fine, Cas,” Dean said now. “We’re gonna pick up that shit Mom wanted, and help Gram move some furniture into storage before she moves to the old folks’ home next week. Easy-peasy.”

“Retirement community,” said Cas.

“What?”

“She’s moving to a retirement community. That’s what they call them now, no one calls them old folks’ homes.”

“Old folks do! That’s what she called it when she called.” 

Cas shrugged. He kept staring at the house like he expected the walls to start dripping blood. “Okay,” he said, “is there anything I need to know before I meet her?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” Cas said. His voice was detached and calm as always, but he’d started drumming on one thigh with long, nervous fingers. “Is she going to expect me to call her ma’am, or take my shoes off at the door, or maybe she’s got a yappy little dog I’ll have to pretend isn’t humping my leg. That kind of thing.”

Reaching over, Dean stilled Cas’s hand with his own. (He could ignore the tingle that ran up his arm when he touched him; after all, he had a lot of practice ignoring his attraction to Cas.) “Yes shoes, no dog. She’s got a fat old tuxedo cat named Francis, sits on his ass all day, he’ll ignore you unless you have tuna. And you can probably just call her Deanna, dude, that’s her name.” 

“You’re named after your grandmother? I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why I’m her favorite. Now come on, Cas, it’s gonna be _fine.”_

Cas unloaded the trunk while Dean got of the food his mom had sent with them—a pie carrier and a tote bag full of Trader Joe’s stuff, since there wasn’t one here. Apparently their duffels had slipped towards the front of the car, because Cas was still reaching for them when Dean came around the back of the car; Dean stared helplessly at Cas’s taut, athletic ass as he bent over, idly imagining what it would feel like filling his hands while Cas drilled into him…nope. He shook off the thoughts as best he could.

They weren’t even halfway down the walk, bags in tow, when the front door flew open and Gram came rushing out; Dean’s heart warmed at the familiar sight of her: graying blonde bob, yoga pants, the pink sweatshirt he bought her when he was ten with a lop-eared bunny on the front. “If it ain’t my favorite grandson,” she said as she reached them, wrapping Dean in a bear hug he enthusiastically returned. “And this must be that Castiel you talk so much about.”

“Uh, yes, I suppose that must be me,” said Cas. “Nice to meet you.” He extended his hand to be shaken, and she ignored it, instead moving in to hug him. Cas, who was definitely not a hugger, mouthed _help_ at Dean over her shoulder, his blue eyes gone wide.

“Come on, Gram, you shouldn’t just hug people without asking,” Dean said as he gently separated them. “You’re gonna scare him off before he even gets inside at this rate.”

“Oh dear,” she said, face full of regret. “I’m sorry, Castiel. I may have been raised next door to a barn, but I usually have better manners.”

“It’s okay, ma’am,” Cas mumbled.

“Call me Deanna, dear! Come in, come in.”

She held the screen door open for them as they entered; Cas followed Dean’s lead, toeing his shoes off in the front hall and taking the first right into the living room, which was cozy and cluttered, half-packed boxes sharing space with a gigantic, boxy couch upholstered in that same fabric upholstered in a rust-orange pattern of a windmill. Dean set down the food he was carrying on the coffee table and reached out to pet the arm of the couch, its scratchy velour texture conjuring waves of nostalgia. “You’re not keeping this thing, are you?”

“That’s going to the neighbor across the street’s co-worker’s niece, she just got her first apartment and doesn’t have anything to put in it. Same with those end tables, and a bunch of kitchen gadgets I don’t want to bother with anymore.”

“Man, end of an era.” Dean patted the couch like he’d pat a horse, or the trunk of his car after closing it. “Sammy and me, when he came to stay, we’d get up at four AM and watch cartoons before anybody woke up. Used to be we could both lay on it at the same time and our feet wouldn’t touch.”

“It’s a nice couch,” said Cas. “I had a couch with a similar same pattern in my first apartment too.”

At the sound of Cas’s voice, a hitherto motionless lump on a rocking chair lifted a jowly feline head and opened one yellow eye. “Hey, Frank,” said Dean. The cat ignored him “See, Cas? He’s harmless. Probably won’t budge for another four hours.”

“Hello, Francis,” Cas said gravely. Francis yawned hugely, leapt down off the chair and ran out of the room with surprising speed, considering his bulk. He left behind an air of superiority and a great deal of black-and-white fur.

“Francis Oliver Campbell, that was unkind!” Gram hollered down the hall after him. “You boys probably want to put those bags down and stretch after the drive. Just through there’s the guest room, Dean, you know it, and you’ll let Castiel know where the facilities are, too, I’m sure.”

“All right, thanks, Gram.” Dean gave her a one-armed hug and showed Cas into the guest room, closing the door behind them before he really took a look at his surroundings—after all, he’d been sleeping in this room once or twice a year since he was a kid.

Which is why it somehow didn’t register until Cas said it. “There’s only one bed.”

“What?” Dean was tossing their duffels into the closet, not really paying attention

“She only made up one bed for us,” said Cas. “Look.” 

It was true, there was only one bed in here—there had only ever been one bed in here, Dean _knew_ that, and this was it, heirloom quilt, visible dent in the middle of the mattress, and all. Barely a double, definitely not anything you could sleep in with another person without being right next to him. Not anything Dean could sleep in with Cas without there being almost no space between them, no way to avoid feeling the heat of his skin, the flow of his breath, the touch of his skin if he fidgeted or turned over in his sleep.

No way, to really cut to the heart of it, for Dean conceal an erection if (who was he kidding, when) he got one.

“Does your grandmother think we’re dating, Dean?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I was going to post a chapter every _other_ day, but ehn, spirit of giving and all that. :D

“It wasn’t me,” said Dean. He’d frozen in place, left hand still stretched out towards the sliding closet door, cheeks turning pink. “I mean, I didn’t tell her we were dating, I swear.”

“Well, it wasn’t me, either, if that’s what you’re implying,” Castiel replied. “Maybe she just assumed, like that bartender at happy hour last month. Thought ‘just a friend’ wouldn’t be willing to spend the weekend hauling furniture with you.” For once, he was glad of his flat affect. As much as he hated it when people called him a robot, or took his sarcasm seriously, his voice could still be perfectly calm as he discussed the concept of his being romantically involved with Dean—which was not, in fact, a concept he could consider at all calmly. He even managed to look at Dean when he said, “Don’t tell me you never thought about it.”

The color drained from Dean’s face entirely, his freckles standing out sharp against the pallor. “What? No!”

Castiel wasn’t always great with social cues, but he was 99% certain that Dean’s squeaky tone of voice implied the opposite. _He_ had certainly thought about dating Dean in the eight years they’d known each other; he’d had an attraction to Dean the whole time, in fact, waxing and waning in intensity depending on his own relationship status. The timing was never right, though: Dean was with Lisa when they met, and by the time that imploded Castiel had started sleeping with Balthazar, and then he had a thing with Meg; Dean was with Benny for a year, Castiel was actually engaged to Daphne before they called it off. And in between, there were one-night stands and Grindr hook-ups enough that it didn’t seem worth it to risk the friendship—Castiel didn’t have a lot of close friends, and he’d never had a best friend before Dean. He liked having a best friend, and so he said, “Cool your jets, Dean, it’s not a big deal. We’ll tell her we’re not dating, I’ll bet that couch folds out.”

“She’ll be embarrassed, though,” Dean said. He moved at last, folding his arms and leaning back against the closet door with exaggerated nonchalance. “What if—hear me out, okay? What if we _don’t_ tell her?”

Castiel frowned. “Why on Earth wouldn’t we?”

Sighing, Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, so. My grandma loves me, Castiel, and I know that, and she doesn’t _care_ that I’m bi, but … there’s a difference between not caring and supporting, you know? We had one conversation about it when I was seventeen, and this is the first sign I’ve gotten since that she remembers and she’s cool with it. I don’t want to ruin that. What if the next time she has a chance to support someone queer, she remembers how embarrassed she was and can’t do it?”

“Dean, that’s not your responsibility. Embarrassment is insufficient reason to be homophobic.”

“I know, I know, you’re right. I just—this gesture means a lot to me. Even people who’re allies in theory sometimes screw up treating gay couples the same way they do straight ones. They just don’t think of it, or they overdo it and you end up feeling like a zoo animal. I kind of want to keep this, is that okay?”

“Well, she’s your grandmother. I don’t know what you do with grandmothers, both of mine died before I was born,” said Castiel. “What do you suggest we do instead?”

“There’s probably an old sleeping bag in the basement I can bring up after Gram goes to bed, I’ll bunk on the floor. It’s only two nights.”

“Right, but—” There was a strange liquid noise echoing in Castiel’s head; after a puzzled few seconds he realized it was the blood rushing through his ears, because his heart had started to pound. “The rest of the time. When we’re with her, she’s going to expect us to act like a couple. Are you prepared to do that?”

Dean went still again, eyes locked on Castiel’s, and he licked his lips. “Sure,” he whispered, and then, louder, “sure, man, she’s not gonna expect us to make out or anything. It won’t be a big deal, we can, I don’t know, hold hands at the dinner table, or I’ll put my arm around you if we’re both on the couch. Nothing fancy.”

“Nothing fancy,” Castiel echoed. As if people did this all the time, as if faking a relationship was something people did at all outside of romantic comedies. Dean _loved_ romantic comedies, despite referring to them by the derogatory term “chick flicks,” and so Castiel had watched a number of them; they generally seemed to consist of extremely attractive people in increasingly improbable situations. Choosing to ignore the fact that elaborate schemes of this variety usually backfired on the participants, he nodded and stuck out his hand. “Deal.”

“Thanks,” said Dean, and shook on it. “There, see, Cas? Just held your hand. No big deal.”

*******

By the time they wandered back into the living room, Deanna was nowhere to be found—although Francis had returned to his chair. The tip of his tail flicked to acknowledge their entrance. “Gram?” Dean called. “Where are you?”

The front door creaked open and her head peeked in. “Settled in okay?”

“Yeah, thanks,” said Dean, opening the door for her. 

“I was just out changing the goose, now it’s stopped raining,” Deanna said, holding up the rain slicker. Castiel looked out the bay window; indeed, the cement goose had been re-dressed in a faded sunhat and Hawaiian shirt. “Dean came up with the cutest name for him,” she said, bundling the clothes away in the front closet. “Didn’t you?”

Dean laughed nervously. “Come on, Gram, it’s not that great.”

“It is too! You’re very clever.” She stretched up to kiss his cheek. “Go on, tell him!”

Castiel raised an eyebrow at Dean, who was once again a becoming shade of red. “I want to hear the name, Dean,” he said earnestly.

“Goose Springsteen,” mumbled Dean. Castiel felt one corner of his mouth turning up and bit his lower lip to keep from smirking.

His grandmother cracked up and patted his shoulder. “It’s clever, ain’t it, Castiel?”

“It’s excellent. I hope it’s got a bandanna and a denim jacket.”

“Of course!” Deanna approached Castiel with open arms—and then stopped. “I’m sorry, I’m forgetting my manners again. Whatever you want instead of a hug, pretend I did that.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said, relieved. “Was there anything you needed us to do tonight to prepare for heavy lifting tomorrow?”

“Not on my account. Just get a good dinner and a good night’s sleep, all the stuff I’ve got to move is solid wood and weighs about a ton. And I can help with dinner! You eat meat, Castiel?”

“I do.”

“Phew,” said Deanna. “Lemme go put the meatloaf in the oven, then. We’ll eat in about an hour.”

*******

The rest of the evening was, to Castiel’s surprise, actually no big deal. Dinner was delicious: a dense but moist meatloaf glazed with ketchup, buttery mashed potatoes, and green beans. He and Dean sat next to each other, though no closer than usual; at one point Dean, punctuating a story about Castiel’s bad luck with cars, squeezed Castiel’s forearm for a moment, which was something he did occasionally anyway. A friendly, even intimate touch, but not a sexual one—Castiel was able to endure it with minimal arousal. 

Afterwards, they watched a few episodes of _Murder, She Wrote_ with Deanna. When they sat down, Dean leaned into Castiel’s side, and Castiel tentatively rested his arm on the back of the couch behind Dean’s shoulders; Dean gave him a quick, nervous smile and then relaxed against him. Every cell of Castiel making contact remained on high alert while Jessica Fletcher solved crimes that left no impression on him.

Deanna headed to bed around 9, Francis trotting behind her; once her door clicked shut, Dean scooted away. Castiel barely suppressed a shiver, suddenly cold. “I’m gonna grab that sleeping bag out of the basement,” Dean said, and jumped up like he’d been bitten. That, to Castiel’s dismay, set the tone for the remainder of the night. They watched some of whatever was on after _Murder She Wrote—Magnum P.I.,_ maybe—and Dean’s eyes were glued to the screen but unfocused, and then Dean finally yawned. “All right, man, I’m gonna get set up on the floor in there. We got work ahead of us tomorrow.”

Dean was already asleep, or feigning it well, when Castiel turned off the TV and crept into the guest room. It was too warm to sleep in a T-shirt, really, but Dean was, on top of a plush camo sleeping bag with an afghan thrown over his lower half. So Castiel followed suit, took his jeans off and climbed into bed. It took him a long time to drift off, and he spent the time watching the way Dean’s chest rose and fell as his breath slowed into sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean woke up with his dick hard and a hell of a hangover—not even from booze, dammit, but from his own bad decisions. He looked over at the bed and was relieved to see it was empty, the sheet ruffled where Cas had tossed it aside; that meant he could take a moment to yell at himself before he had to get his shit together enough to interact with Cas and Gram.

“What the goddamn fucking fuck were you thinking?” he grumbled aloud, then grabbed the pillow from beneath his head and pressed it over his face, muffling his frustrated groan. He had, while fully sober and supposedly sane, convinced Cas to pretend they were dating. “How did this _happen?”_ he said into the pillow.

Everything he’d said yesterday was true: Gram’s quietly setting them up in one bed because she thought they were together felt really great. Like it didn’t even occur to her to treat them different because they were two dudes. He shouldn’t be grateful for this, for fuck’s sake, it was just basic common decency, like being grateful to someone for feeding you when they’d invited you to dinner. But he couldn’t help it—once he got over his initial _oh shit what do I do_ reaction, he couldn’t stop thinking about he and Cas being a real couple, what could happen between them in that bed if they were. And once those thoughts were in his head, he couldn’t let them go—and he just felt like if he couldn’t for real sleep with Cas in that bed, at least he could let Gram believe he was. That was a kind of reality, wasn’t it? Not _real_ reality, but the best he was gonna get.

But while it may have been the best he could get, it was also kind of the worst. The physical shit, that was one thing; he touched Cas all the time (a pat on the back, a hand on the shoulder) so he didn’t expect it to be different, but it was, somehow. Last night, sitting on the couch in front of whatever was on after _Murder, She Wrote—Rockford Files,_ maybe—the memory of Cas’s arm around him burned like a brand, like he’d left behind the mark of his hand seared into Dean’s skin. That was bad enough. 

The look on Gram’s face, though, when Dean was holding onto Cas’s wrist, pleased and a little proud. She’d given Sam and Amelia that same look when she heard about their engagement, for fuck’s sake; it was almost the same look, in fact, she’d have given to a perfectly baked pie crust or a sock she’d just finished darning, as if something had come together just right. That anyone would look at him and Cas like that was as terrifying as it was thrilling.

At least today he could avoid thinking about it. Manual labor was Dean’s second-best means of distraction when he was so sexually frustrated he thought it might actually kill him.

First-best—a cold shower—was just down the hall, though, and it had fewer side effects in the long run. Gritting his teeth, he pried the sleep crud out of the corners of his eyes and got up, grabbing fresh clothes out of his duffel and carrying them in front of his crotch as he left the guest room. On his way to the bathroom, he heard Cas’s laughter from the dining room, and then Gram’s guffaw rising with it. Shit, they were getting along like a house on fire. Was that good? Bad? _When did he lose all control of his life?_

Dean groaned and turned on the water, suppressing a yelp when he stepped beneath the icy water. He might actually die anyway.

*******

He found Cas and Gram in the kitchen; she was flipping pancakes at the stove while bacon sizzled in a second skillet; Cas was leaning back against the dishwasher with the air of someone who had been told to stay put. He was laughing again when Dean walked in, and when he looked up and caught Dean’s eyes, his smile was dazzling, like Dean had been gone for hours instead of sleeping on the floor six feet away all night. 

And just like that, whatever quelling effect Dean’s shower had on how much he wants to hit that was totally gone.

“Hello, Dean,” said Cas. If he, too, was inwardly freaking out, it didn’t show—but then, that was Cas. After they’d been friends this long, Dean understood that Cas had feelings, all right, he just didn’t show them in the same ways as most other people. And that was fine, goddammit, there’s not one way to show you’re sad or angry or in love, or shouldn’t be. But it sure bugged the hell out of some people that Cas didn’t act like they expected, which was bullshit. Dean cried all the time, even if it wasn’t in front of people, and he didn’t give a shit when Cas told him once he hadn’t cried since he was fifteen years old. 

So Dean comforted himself with the fantasy that Cas was as much of a mess of panic and lust under the surface as Dean was. “Hey, Cas. Hey, Gram. Need a hand?”

“Keep an eye on that bacon is all,” she said, offering her cheek to be kissed. 

Dean raised an eyebrow at Cas as he took his place beside her and turned the bacon. “You couldn’t do that, huh?”

Castiel laughed. “I wasn’t allowed to do that after I burned all those pancakes.”

“He’s hopeless,” Gram said fondly. “Looks so strong and he’s helpless as a baby in the kitchen. How do you stand it, Dean?”

“He’s great with pasta,” Dean said truthfully. “I never thought salt in the water made much of a difference, but Cas told me I just wasn’t using enough. Whole new ballgame.”

“‘The salinity of the ocean,’” Cas quoted with a smirk.

“Yeah, all right, Scott Conant,” said Dean. “Make yourself useful, set the table or something.”

When Cas took his load of plates and silverware into the dining room, Gram said to Dean quietly, “Thank you for bringing him, Dean. It’s so nice to see you happy.”

“Uh. Thanks, I like being happy, I guess.” said Dean. “Thanks for having us.”

“How long have you two boys been together?”

This was not a question Dean had been prepared for, which was his own fault because obviously that’s one of the first questions someone asks. What if she’d asked Cas about it already and was trying to trick him into making a mistake? Okay, that thought he could probably blame on watching too many detective shows. Gram was not checking their alibis, and so he just needed to say something and tell Cas later what it was. “Six months or so. We were friends for a long time, though.”

“That’s good. It’s good to know you’re friends even without the sex.”

Briefly, Dean considered grabbing the cast-iron handle in front of him with his bare hand, in hopes that the shock of pain would override the memory of the last five seconds.“Oh my God, Gram, please don’t ever say something like that again.” 

“Oh please, kiddo, I’ve been having sex since the Eisenhower administration and I’ll say what I want.”

“Gram, I’m begging you.”

She laughed. “All right, all right. I’m glad you have someone, that’s all, and I like Castiel, too.” She flipped the last pancake onto a plate. “Hope he still likes me after carrying all my crap today.”

******

After a hearty dinner of meatloaf sandwiches (and double helpings of his mom’s pie), Dean climbed into his second shower of the day sweaty, sore and, God help him, more into Cas than ever. He’d helped the guy move before—Cas didn’t have much furniture, but he had a shit-ton of books, so Dean’s had plenty of opportunity to see those wiry arms at work, the way those massive thighs brace against the ground when Cas lifted a heavy load. He thought he could handle it; but this was apparently the weekend the whole goddamn universe gangs up on Dean Winchester, because instead all he wanted to do was well, _handle Cas._

He settled for handling himself instead, stroking his dick while he lets hot water rain down on his aching shoulder blades. Cas was so fucking strong. Dean worked out, he had a physical job, he was no slouch himself, but he thought Cas probably had him beat. Most of Gram’s furniture—a Colonial Revival dining set, a walnut four-poster bedstead, a giant dresser that had been in Gram’s bedroom as far back as Dean could remember—they had to move together. But there was this cherrywood coffee table, made by Dean’s great-something-or-other, that Cas just picked up with one hand and walked out to the truck himself, like it weighed nothing at all, and Dean stared after him and _lusted_ until Gram snapped him out of it by handing him a lamp.

And Cas had kept touching him. Dean jerked himself faster, remembering how Cas’s hands kept finding their way to Dean’s waist, his hair, the small of his back. He was totally believable as Dean’s boyfriend; Gram was over the moon about it. She’d introduced Cas to her next-door neighbor as “my grandson’s wonderful partner, Castiel,” and the other woman, a Black lady who was eighty if she was a day, insisted on showing them the rainbow afghan she was knitting for a lesbian couple at church. Goddamn Kansas: Dean had lived here his whole life, and he still hadn’t figured it out.

At least the whole nightmare was close to over. All Dean had to do was make it through the night without jumping Cas and he could go home without having made an ass of himself. “You got this, buddy,” Dean muttered to himself, as he came into his hand with a whimper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut tomorrow! I swear I was as frustrated as you that I couldn't get these two to BONE DOWN ALREADY.


	4. Chapter 4

In the guest room, Cas was already in bed, reading something on his phone. “Hello, Dean,” he said. “I like your grandmother very much, but I can’t believe that much furniture fit in this house.”

“Man, I know, my back’s got as many knots as a Boy Scout jamboree.” 

Cas narrowed his eyes. “You definitely thought of that line in advance.”

Dean grinned and shrugged, then winced when his shoulders protested the movement. “Yeah. I was gonna go with that or a BDSM convention, and I figured I’d go wholesome. I tell you what, though, I’m not looking forward to sleeping on the floor.”

“Then don’t sleep on the floor,” said Cas. 

And Dean must have been more exhausted than he thought, because he didn’t get it at first. “Nah, you can’t sleep on the floor, either, Cas. You lifted more than I did.”

“Dean,” said Cas, in that way he had of making Dean’s name mean _don’t be ridiculous._

“Oh,” said Dean. “Oh, uh, you’re sure you don’t mind? I used to share that bed with Sam when I was little, but we’re not small guys.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Cas.

And hell, what was Dean supposed to do? He _really_ didn’t want to sleep on the floor—he was over thirty and had to drive tomorrow, and he knew he’d regret not taking Cas’s offer. And Cas had been touching him all day, and Dean was still kind of stupid from his orgasm in the shower, and getting into that bed sounded like heaven on Earth. So he climbed under the covers next to Cas, in his T-shirt and boxers, and put his head down on a pillow that smelled like mothballs; Cas gave him a half-smile as Dean’s foot bumped his accidentally, and reached over to push a strand of wet hair off Dean’s forehead. “Good night,” said Cas, and went back to his reading.

“Good night,” said Dean. He was sure he’d never be able to fall asleep, but he was so tired—and the bed was so soft, and Cas smelled so good from his own shower—he dropped off in minutes.

*******

What Dean had forgotten about the bed in Gram’s guest room was the Grand Canyon, as Sam had dubbed it long ago: the permanent crease that ran vertically down the center of the mattress, since the mattress was folded in the attic when it wasn’t in use. He and Sammy would always ask for extra pillows to put along it to wall them off from each other—that made the bed even smaller, but they’d been small then, too. Without some kind of barrier, you couldn’t sleep there with another person without both of you rolling to the middle and getting tangled up with each other.

But it wasn’t childhood memories that woke Dean up with a jolt in the middle of the night; it was Cas, half on top of him where they’d rolled to meet each other, his thigh bearing down between Dean’s own. Cas was still asleep, but even so, his hand had found the stretch of skin where Dean’s T-shirt had ridden up, and spread out possessively over his ribs. Dean held his breath when Cas moved, but he didn’t wake, just pressed his face into Dean’s shoulder with a sigh and clutched more tightly at his side.

Dean wasn’t gonna stop and make a list, but this was definitely top ten most aroused he’d ever been.

It was also right up there in terms of most awkward situations, though, and he laid there for a minute or two trying unsuccessfully to will his erection away before shaking Cas’s shoulder and hissing his name.

“Dean, I’m asleep,” mumbled Cas irritably, nestling closer—and then his whole body tensed and he pulled back. The dim glow of the streetlight outside was reflected in his eyes. “Shit, I’m sorry, I think it’s the mattress.”

“Yeah, I forgot,” said Dean, looking at the ceiling. Cas’s leg was still pressing into his dick, there was no way he couldn’t feel it. “It’s okay. I’m sorry about my…you know.”

“Oh,” said Cas, looking down. “That’s…not a problem.” Dean felt the muscle in Cas’s thigh flex, and Cas shifted his hips ever so slightly. He was hard, too, Dean realized.

The smart play here was to laugh it off and show Cas the pillow-wall method, then go back to sleep; Gram’s room was just down the hall, and adults talked about their mutual attraction in the daytime instead of suddenly getting it on in the middle of the night. All Dean wanted to do right now, though, was get his mouth on Cas’s dick, and he was having a hell of a time thinking of any reason he shouldn’t. 

Instead of being the calm voice of reason Dean expected, Cas palmed his hip and leaned in to whisper into his ear. “Wanna make a mistake, Dean?”

With a whimper, Dean turned his head just enough to kiss him.

Even though he’d been conscious for about 60 seconds, Cas wasn’t fumbling or tentative at all. Right away, Cas’s tongue was pushing into Dean’s mouth and his hand was slipping back under Dean’s shirt; Cas mouthed at Dean’s jaw and made satisfied sounds that weren’t any less hot for being quiet. Rolling Cas all the way on top, Dean let Cas’s legs fall between his own, grabbed that fantastic ass in both hands, and moved Cas’s hips just right so their dicks lined up. “Cas,” he gasped into his mouth, then pulled away an inch. “Can I blow you? I want to so bad.”

“Go ahead.” Cas sat back on his haunches and got his dick out through his boxers. Scrambling to get himself into position, Dean kissed Cas on the mouth again, peeled his shirt off over his head, before bending down forward to run his tongue around one of Cas’s nipples; Cas swore quietly and pushed his hand into Dean’s hair. “Don’t stop,” he said.

Stopping was the last thing on Dean’s mind. His senses were filled with Cas: the clean salt taste of his skin, his sleep-warm smell, the soft give of his belly as Dean kissed lower, until the head of Cas’s dick brushed his chin. Dean ran a knuckle up the side of it, and Cas gasped. “Yeah,” he said, his breath quickening. “Suck my cock, Dean, please.”

“Take these off,” said Dean, grabbing at Cas’s boxers. He flicked his tongue out, intending to just get a little taste of Cas’s dick and let him get naked—but then he went back for another taste, and another, and Cas gave up on undressing and urged Dean’s mouth down over him, gentle but insistent.

“Yeah,” Cas whispered, thrusting a little. “God, Dean, I always knew you’d be good at this.”

Good wasn’t good enough for Dean, though—honestly, if Cas could still form words at all, Dean needed to step it up. He might never get do this again, after all; Cas wouldn’t have called it a mistake if it were likely to happen again. So Dean really went for the gold, used all his best tricks: swirling his tongue around the shaft, pulling back to lick and suck at the head, sliding down just to the edge of his gag reflex and humming deep in his throat while Cas’s breath heaved.

Cas yanked him up by the hair, and suddenly he was on his back, and Cas was tugging Dean’s boxer-briefs down his legs and swallowing his dick. “Shit!” Dean cried, a little too loud, but Cas didn’t let up; Dean had to put a pillow over his face to muffle his moans as Cas got his hands under Dean’s ass and lifted. He sucked at Dean’s balls, then thumbed his cheeks apart and licked lower to graze Dean’s hole. Dean yelped into the pillow and spread his legs as far as he could. Cas took full advantage, his tongue lapping at Dean’s rim like it was all he wanted out of life. The white metal bedstead rattled beneath them.

Then Cas’s tongue was gone, and Dean whined and thrust his hips up in protest; then the pillow over Dean’s face was gone, replaced with Cas’s palm pressing firmly over his mouth. His other hand went back between Dean’s legs, rubbing the pad of his thumb over Dean’s hole. “When we get back to Lawrence,” Cas said hoarsely without breaking eye contact, “I’m going to lube you up and fuck you senseless.”

In all of his years of fantasies, Dean had never pegged Cas as a dirty talker, which proved this was real, that Cas was really all over him like this, it wasn’t just some weird dream because he ate so much at dinner. Too bad he wouldn’t get a chance to see if Cas could talk him off without touching him—and that thought was almost enough to put him over the edge on its own, but then Cas leaned down to finish the blowjob he started, sucking hard at the head of Dean’s dick while he worked a fingertip just inside him, and Dean came hard enough to see stars.

As Dean lay there in a haze, his head spinning and the muscles in his thighs twitching, he was dimly aware of Cas jacking off onto Dean’s stomach, then of his mouth cleaning him off after. “That’s hot,” he slurred, and Cas laughed into his skin.

“Go to sleep, Dean,” Cas said. He tucked Dean’s pillow back under his head and curled up beside him in the Grand Canyon, an arm around his waist. He was out like a light pretty much instantly.

Dean, though, stayed awake for what felt like hours. That last thing Cas had said, about fucking him. Had he meant that this wouldn’t be a one-time thing? And did that mean he wanted them to be a thing? Did Dean?

His thoughts were interrupted by the rattling doorknob—soon, the door creaked open just enough to admit Francis, who shot Dean a look of pure disdain before wandering over to the closet and making a nest on his duffel.

All Dean had decided by the time he slept was that even if having sex with Cas had been a mistake, it was one he wanted to keep making.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. I hope the wait was worth it.


	5. Chapter 5

As they pulled away from Deanna’s house, she was standing on the porch next to Goose Springsteen, who had donned his jacket and bandanna to see them off. Castiel gave her a wave and a smile, but regret sat like a stone in his stomach. 

At first, when he’d found himself embracing Dean in the middle of the night, he’d been certain he hadn’t really awoken at all—not when he startled, not when Dean spoke, not when he felt Dean’s erection pressing into his thigh. Even when he’d leaned down to whisper a question into Dean’s ear, he had honestly believed he was having an unusually vivid dream, subconsciously enriched by the sounds and scent of Dean asleep beside him. It hadn’t been until Dean kissed him that he fully realized what was happening, and then, once he knew the taste and shape of Dean’s mouth, it had been too late.

Now Castiel knew too much: what Dean looked like naked. What Dean’s lips looked like stretched around his cock. Worse, he knew what it was like to wake up next to Dean. They’d shifted in the night; Dean had been behind him, his hand on Castiel’s arm, and Castiel had looked out across the room and discovered that Francis had gotten in the room somehow and was sitting on Dean’s duffel in the closet. The cat’s judgmental yellow glare met Castiel’s and didn’t waver.

“Hi, Francis,” he said quietly. Dean stirred but didn’t wake. Francis, of course, didn’t answer, just continued to stare him down like he was trying to cast a spell. Wasn’t eye contact an aggressive gesture in cats? Remembering something he’d once seen on TV, Castiel had blinked at Francis very slowly; this was supposed to make a cat feel welcomed and safe, but Francis didn’t respond. All right then, he’d have to lose a staring contest with a cat. There was no shame in that. “You win, kitty. Don’t watch me get dressed, please.”

He’d extricated himself from Dean gently enough that he remained asleep. If they were going to talk about this, it wasn’t going to be before they were fully conscious—after all, that’s what caused the trouble in the first place.

But they couldn’t talk about it while Deanna was around, and she had already been up scrambling eggs and brewing coffee when Castiel stumbled into the kitchen. Now, as Dean maneuvered his big black muscle car towards I-35, Castiel needed to say something. He just needed to think of what. Maybe Dean would start and save him the trouble.

An hour later, though, neither of them had spoken at all. Dean had turned up the radio, but didn’t sing along as he usually did, all his concentration focused on the road ahead of him. Castiel had quickly lost his nerve in the face of Dean’s silence; he knew from experience that, while Dean was a simmering cauldron of feelings most of the time, forcing him to talk about said feelings was an uphill battle, and rarely worth it in the end. So Castiel was silent, too, reading a book on his phone when his inner ear allowed it, watching the fields streak by outside his window when he started to get nauseated.

Really, he had no right to be so disappointed. Wasn’t he the one who’d called hooking up a mistake, even before anything happened? Never mentioning it again probably wasn’t the most mature way to deal with their mistake, but it would probably work. They would go on like they had before, and that would be good, Castiel reminded himself—his friendship with Dean was a good thing. So they’d accidentally had sex. Why rock the boat?

By the time they reached Castiel’s apartment in Lawrence, he was resigned to the status quo. He could live with it, and eventually he could be glad last night happened, and not sad that it wouldn’t happen again. “Thank you for driving, Dean,” he said. “I enjoyed meeting your grandmother very much.”

He was opening his door when Dean stopped him by grabbing hold of his wrist. “What you said last night.” Dean cleared his throat; his cheeks were pink. “About when we got back here. Were you serious about that?”

Castiel furrowed his brow, not understanding. “What I said?”

“Uh.” Dean dropped his wrist and fiddled with a knob on the radio. “What you said about what you were going to do to me. That you wanted to, you know.”

Castiel’s jaw dropped. “Oh my God, did I say that out _loud?”_

*******

They left their luggage in the car. Although Dean’s hand rested on the small of Castiel’s back as he fumbled the door of his apartment open, they seemed to have a tacit mutual agreement to head straight to the bedroom instead of doing the make-out-across-the-living-room-and-leave-a-trail-of-clothes thing. Once they got there and fell onto the bed together, everything slowed down: Castiel knew he was fully conscious, but he still felt like he was dreaming as he kissed Dean, slid his hands beneath his clothes. “I didn’t think you wanted to talk about it,” he said, licking up Dean’s throat.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” said Dean. “I wanna skip that part and just get to the good stuff.” He shivered when Castiel bit his collarbone. “Yeah, like that.”

Castiel did it again, and then propped himself up on his elbows to look Dean in the eye. “But you don’t think last night was a mistake. I want to hear that before we keep going.”

Dean groaned. “No, Cas, I don’t. And I think pretending to be dating in front of Gram was a dumb thing to do, for sure, but it—I’m glad we did it, anyway. It was so—” he fumbled for a word.

“Easy,” Castiel said.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “I figure if it’s so easy to pretend, and we had sex anyway, it just makes sense to date for real? For one thing, if Gram thinks we’re dating, then Mom definitely does, so that’d be two of my closest relatives to disappoint. I just hope I won’t fuck it up too bad. You know I’m, uh, not the world’s greatest boyfriend.”

“Neither am I. Remember, Meg used to call me Tin Man because she said I had no heart? And Meg _liked_ me.”

Dean gave an undignified snort. “Yeah, as much as she liked anyone. Still spent your whole relationship treating you like shit.”

“True.”

“She was hot, though.”

“Also true. My point is, I have a hard time showing emotions, and that can be frustrating for the people I date.”

“Okay,” said Dean, “but you have a heart.” He put his hand over it on Castiel’s chest. “I can feel it, and I can feel your emotions, too—they come out in the way you touch me. I think you’ll be fine.”

“And you’re my best friend,” Castiel said, and felt like he was saying _I love you._ “You’ve been making me happy with your presence for years. I’m not saying there won’t be hiccups, but we’ll do okay.”

Dean grinned up at him and ground his hips upward. “Well, I’m pretty damn happy right now, at least. Think that’s enough talking, though, you were gonna nail me to the mattress, yeah?”

“I was. I am.”

So he did. And even though first-time intercourse is always a little awkward—bodies are different, and fitting any two together requires adjustment—somehow, at the same time, it’s as natural and familiar as holding hands. They fucked on all fours. Dean’s spine arched into the hollow of Castiel’s chest and his ass was snug around Castiel’s cock, and they mashed their mouths together over Dean’s shoulder and gasped and panted their way to climax.

When Castiel came back from the bathroom, Dean was still where he left him, sprawled face down on the bed with a goofy smile on his face. “Did I break you?” Castiel asked, ruffling his hair and tossing him a washcloth.

Dean yawned ostentatiously. “Yeah, in a good way. I could use a nap.”

“It’s not even noon, Dean.”

“That took a lot out of me!” protested Dean, cleaning himself off as Castiel flopped onto his back next to him. _“You_ took a lot out of me. Plus before that I drove for three hours, my ass is gonna be all kinds of sore.”

“Poor thing,” said Castiel, and slapped the ass in question. Dean jumped and squeaked, and Castiel liked that so much he did it again. “All right, so we’ll nap. And then?”

“I don’t know.” Dean frowned. “What did we do before? I can’t even remember.”

“Well, I did say I was going to fuck you senseless.”

“Hey, buddy, I’m senseful as hell, ask anyone.”

 _“This_ is what we did, mostly,” said Castiel. He reached for his jeans on the floor and took out his phone, started clicking his way towards a TV schedule. “I give you shit, and you give back weak rejoinders. We’re not usually naked, though.”

“Oh, this is better, then.” Dean pulled him close, green eyes radiant, and kissed him for a while, until he interrupted himself with a yawn. “Right. We were gonna nap.”

“I’ll be with you in a second,” Castiel said, going back to his phone. “Oh, that’s right, game’s on in an hour. Royals at Mariners. You in?”

“Can we watch in our underwear?”

“Sure," said Castiel, "and I’ll suck you off during the seventh-inning stretch.”

“Perfect.” Dean turned his back to Castiel and backed up into his arms with a happy little hum. Castiel rested a hand on Dean’s hip, buried his face between his shoulder blades, and dozed off, content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas Adam to all, and to all a good night!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ameliaclarkfic).


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